This is Petr. I first noticed him last week in Monument Valley. A few days later, I spotted him writing in his notebook at a gas station en route to Tuba City. Finally, I flagged him down in the middle of Route 98 in Arizona. He’s from the Czech Republic and he’s been riding across the country for 58 days now. He started in New York City. ”I plan to keep riding until I run out of money,” he said. “Or until October 12, when I fly back home.”

Although Petr spends many of his nights in a tent, he often enjoys the unsolicited kindness of strangers. A Navajo family took care of him last night and he proudly showed me the road atlas that he received from a concerned couple in Illinois. “I love your country,” he said. “The people are so nice.” Maybe it was delirium from the 110º sun out there in the red desert, but he looked so happy when he said this that I believed him.

Running into Petr was good for me. Between touring airplane graveyards and driving along the fencelines of strange military installations, it’s easy to start feeling apocalyptic in the desert — and my newfound addiction to talk radio isn’t helping. Listening to Petr talk about Chicago, St. Louis, Memphis, and riding alongside the Mississippi river before crossing through endless cornfields that dissolve into the desert reminded me of why I feel so invested in America in the first place: the chaotic rush and ridiculous scope of this boundless nation. And this guy is crossing it on his bicycle. I take an odd pride in knowing that Petr’s being treated well by strangers in this country. I hope to bump into him again and quiz him some more when I point the rental car east.

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Ratatat – Desert Eagle
from Ratatat. XL Recordings, 2004
I tend to unfairly dismiss Ratatat on the basis of their American Apparel image and adherence to a rigid template — but every few months I’m happily reminded that this template is a stunning combination of gauzy breakbeats, gutter twang, and narcotic guitars, all of it forming a strange yet familiar sensation of sundrenched and slow-motion melancholy. To my mind, their debut remains an indispensable record.